


You Make Me Sick

by courferrevevo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Boarding School AU, F/M, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Other, Post Hogwarts AU, aNyway send me requests lmao, bc im a complete sucker 4 romance and feelings rip, its like????? angst that turns into smut that turns into fluff, this was so angsty sorry lmaO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courferrevevo/pseuds/courferrevevo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Concise List of Things Enjolras Hates: oatmeal, being sick, how Combeferre and Courfeyrac won't stop flirting, and always managing to say the wrong thing.<br/>A Concise List of Things Enjolras Likes: Grantaire (apparently)<br/>***</p><p>wjhdgsdkjhf i jus rly wanted an excuse to write a hogwarts au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Enjolras had a cold. Normally, colds were not a big deal. Most people could struggle, runny-nosed, through a few days of class. Most people could probably even be productive when they were sick. But Enjolras hated being sick, and remained steadfast in his decision to be as ineffectual as was humanly possible.  
That is why, when Feuilly burst into their Hogwarts dorm room at 2:00 in the afternoon, Enjolras was not in Charms (where he was supposed to be taking a quiz), but despondently flung across his bed in disarray. Feuilly sighed and picked up a pillow off of the rug.  
“Feeling any better?” he asked, cautiously lowering his voice and attempting to appear soothing.  
“I was asleep until you barged in here,” snarled Enjolras from inside a cocoon of blankets. Feuilly bit the inside of his cheek until the desire to hex the swathe of sheets in front of him had passed. Enjolras was absolutely impossible when he was sick.  
“Well, since you’re under the weather, I’ll leave you to rest up. I was just grabbing my history book,” Feuilly gathered his volume of _Merlin and Other European Wizards_ in his arms as he spoke, and hurriedly made for the door. He jumped when the bundle of blankets on the bed sat up, Enjolras’ red, runny nose peeking through them.  
“Tell Combeferre to bring me the homework I missed,” Enjolras ordered, grumpily tugging the blanket in closer.  
“You could say please,” hinted Feuilly, raising his eyebrow at Enjolras’ nose. The nose and the blankets toppled back down to the bed.  
“Sure,” conceded Feuilly after a pointed silence, slamming the door shut behind him a little too hard. Enjolras really was the worst when he was sick.

# **

“Oh, _fuck_ that old hag,” Enjolras groaned as Combeferre handed him a list of assignments for Transfiguration.  
“You did miss an entire week,” Combeferre reminded him, mussing up his hair and knocking his glasses out of place in the process. Settling them back on his nose, Combeferre handed Enjolras the assignments for the rest of their classes. With a heavy sigh, Enjolras put them in order and set them on his nightstand.  
“It’s like they’re trying to go ahead and kill me while I’m weak,” he whined.  
“I’m pretty sure it’s against school policy for professors to plot their students’ demises,” Combeferre deadpanned.  
Enjolras shook out his blonde hair emphatically. “That’s the whole thing— this school is designed to afford opportunity to the elite. There’s one way of teaching things, and anyone who can’t keep up is only given the opportunity to do menial things. So in a way, they _are_ planning some of our demises. They’re picking and choosing who should be allowed to make a difference based off of our NEWT and OWL scores. It undermines the whole point of—” Enjolras was cut off by a bark of laughter at the door.  
“I don’t see what you have to worry about, angel-face, because you are one of the ‘elite’, so this school’s oligarchic tendencies shouldn’t really bother you. You’ll just give yourself frown lines,” the dark-haired boy in the doorway teased. “Hey, Ferre,” he grinned, flashing a blinding smile before growing sullen again.  
“Hi, Grantaire,” mumbled Combeferre, sticking his nose in his book bag and pretending to look for something.  
Grantaire walked over to the bed and set a mug of tea in Enjolras’ hand, leaning over on his elbows expectantly. “Heard you were sick,” he explained after a minute, cracking another, more uncertain, smile. Enjolras looked at the boy in front of him with narrowed eyes before raising the mug to his lips and muttering, “Thanks”.  
_So, maybe they won’t fight today_ , Combeferre thought to himself. _Progress_.  
“…but why the hell did you say that I shouldn’t care about inequality? Just because I benefit from it doesn’t make it right,” Enjolras was gesturing passionately with his hands, and succeeded in spilling tea all over his Slytherin scarf.  
“Do you even hear yourself??” Grantaire wondered, drying off the scarf with the edge of a blanket. “You have no survival instincts whatsoever. Rule number one of human survival: if something benefits you, then it’s good.”  
Combeferre made a weak attempt to cut the argument short.  
“You guys both have perfectly valid opin-”  
“That’s completely primitive! How on earth is humanity supposed to evolve if we perpetuate a ‘survival of the fittest’ mindset? The people who are naturally good at everything will be too few and far between to make a difference, but if we started _teaching_ people things in ways that they understood, we could effect change wherever we want!” Enjolras took the scarf from Grantaire’s hands and spelled it clean with a tap of his wand and a spell.  
Grantaire pulled the scarf down and held Enjolras’ gaze. “You can’t teach people who aren’t good at anything to be good at things. Believe me, you’ll just end up frustrating a bunch of people— including yourself. It’s kinder this way. The people who don’t measure up can blame the system for their wasted lives, rather than having to come to terms with the fact that they themselves weren’t good enough. Letting the system choose means that nobody blames you for their mistakes.”  
Enjolras clenched his fists. “No, you don’t get it— everybody has a natural capacity to… hey, where are you going?”  
Grantaire paused at the door. “I promised to help Jehan finish his Potions homework, and I obviously ‘don’t get’ what you’re saying, so I’ll leave you and Combeferre to your revolution of education. See you around,” he said, strolling into the hall and leaving Enjolras, speechless, clutching his half-emptied mug of tea. _Never mind about progress_ , thought Combeferre.  
“That _ass_ ,” Enjolras raged. “Why doesn’t he just _try_ to get it. It’s not a difficult concept,” he spat, looking around petulantly. “Better education equals more progress. He doesn’t have to be a dick about it.”  
“I think he’s just playing devil’s advocate to your ideas,” suggested Combeferre mildly.  
“No, he’s being obstinate.”  
“He comes to all of your club meetings, Enj. He must agree with you somewhere along the line.”  
“He just doodles the whole time,” said Enjolras stubbornly.  
“Hmm.”  
The lump of blankets shifted to make way for the tea. Enjolras’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Why doesn’t he believe that my ideas can make a difference?”  
Combeferre sighed heavily, like he thought that Enjolras was unbelievable. “Maybe you should apologize.”  
“Yeah…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have A Plan for this i swear and this time im gonna finish it and post every week


	2. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Eponine gets majorly misgendered and bullied in this chapter, so if that stuff triggers you please don't read!!

Really and truly, Enjolras had planned on skipping breakfast. His head felt like it was stuffed with dough, and he couldn’t breathe through his left nostril. Always the left. However, he’d spent the entire night (much to Feuilly’s chagrin) coming up with the most elegant solution possible to Grantaire’s dispute from yesterday, and he couldn’t wait to share it with Combeferre (and truthfully, he was feeling a _tiny_ bit better).  
He would _not_ share it with Grantaire, because he had also planned on apologizing to him before getting into another debate. This was Combeferre’s advice; mend hurt feelings before anything else, especially with Grantaire. Of course, pacifism was always Combeferre’s (admittedly sound) advice. During his first year at Hogwarts, after Enjolras had started a fistfight with the shaggy-haired boy next to him on the train (over the stupidity of school uniforms)(they didn’t even _really_ disagree), Combeferre had sat down next to a young Enjolras, charmed his school scarf frozen, and instructed him to give it to the other boy for his black eye.  
“Fuck off,” Grantaire had mumbled when Enjolras slunk, ashamed, into his compartment to offer up his condolences. Enjolras had then proceeded to hurl the frozen scarf at Grantaire, and turn on his heel, outraged. Thus began the fated cycle of argument, attempted reconciliation, and further damage between the two. Usually, another friend would intervene before long, be it Combeferre acting as a level-headed mediator, or Courfeyrac getting everyone so drunk that they forgot there was a problem. But Enjolras hated depending on other people, and so this time, he was determined to fix things with Grantaire on his own.  
_He can’t be that upset_ , Enjolras thought, pulling on the first clean sweater he could find in his dresser. _I didn’t really say anything wrong— he always takes things out of context, so I just have to tell him not to do that anymore. I obviously don’t mean it personally, but he’s so goddamn insecure…_  
He stopped in front of the mirror on the way out of his room, pulling a beanie (it was red, and definitely clashed with his navy sweater) down over his ears, and stuffing a handful of tissues in his pocket. _It can’t be that hard to apologize. “Hey, Taire, I’m sorry that you got offended, but stop taking things personally because it’s a very bad habit.”_  
Slamming the door with the exhilaration of being grumpy and tired, he nodded to himself. It was, after all, just a simple apology.

# **

_“Grantaire!!! I’m sorry that you take everything so personally and I hope that you learn to stop doing that.”_  
_Perfect_.  
Enjolras, confident in his rehearsed apology, threw open the door to the dining hall.  
“Hey, watch it!” a mousy boy in a Gryffindor sweater frowned, massaging his shoulder where the door had hit him.  
“It’s a _door_ , you shouldn’t be standing in fr— oh, Eponine. Where is every one else sitting?”  
“Apology accepted, dickwad. They’re over at your table. Cosette pulled her ‘we must keep house-motivated alienation to a minimum’ shit, so fuckin’ Slytherin table it is today,” Eponine said, rolling his eyes so hard that it looked painful. Enjolras knew that Eponine didn’t actually hate the Slytherins, or their table, but he did hate Azelma, who had zealously defended the title of ‘Resident Slytherin Bitch’ since nearly second year. True to her title, she never sat anywhere other than her throne at the head of the Slytherin table, which, consequently, Eponine had a natural aversion to.  
At times, even Enjolras could empathize.  
But not when he was sick. “Wonderful, I have some points for debate that I need to run by everybody…” Enjolras trailed off absentmindedly as he yanked Eponine in the direction of the Slytherin table. A cluster of first years at the end of the Hufflepuff table sputtered as Enjolras dragged Eponine, spewing curses, through their midst.  
“So I said, ‘Shit, I’m gonna punch the suit of armor’, because fuckin’ Feuilly— tell them what you did, babe,” Bahorel was rumbling, looking affectionately at the wispy redhead sitting next to him.  
“Something asinine, I assume,” Enjolras said, dropping into the empty seat between Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Before Feuilly could shoot Enjolras a withering glare, Bahorel giggled gleefully.  
“Fuckin’ asinine is right. This little ginger fucker went and _spelled the suits of armor alive_ because he— actually, it’s funnier when you say it, babe. Please say it,” Bahorel looked over at Feuilly sweetly.  
Feuilly rolled his eyes. “I… I wanted to see if they thought I was King Arthur.”  
The group burst into riotous laughter. Bahorel smiled fondly as Feuilly’s cheeks flushed. “It’s a logical conjecture,” he protested weakly. “King Arthur was a redhead…”  
Enjolras snorted he tried to catch Grantaire’s eye. _Can you believe him?_ he said with his smirk. Enjolras couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Grantaire was purposefully ignoring him. He shook his head a bit. No matter, he had more important things to worry about. Grantaire’s apology would have to wait. Clearing his throat, he waited for the ruckus to die down.  
“I think Enjolras has something to say; he’s got his lecturing face on,” said Jehan. Enjolras liked Jehan’s voice; it was reminded him of wind rustling through leaves. It was very easy to talk over, which was one of it’s more appealing qualities. Too bad it belonged to a smart ass. The week before, Enjolras had tried to call the debate club to order, and it ended with Jehan waxing poetic for an hour about how Enjolras was a deserted hurricane, and an electric tranquilizer, or some shit like that. He’d never live it down, honestly. Cosette had made him a plaque about it.  
“Actually, yes. A weak point in our argument was brought to my attention yesterday, and I really think that we should go over our rebuttals for it before semi-final debates. They’re coming up in three months, and we still have to finish compiling a list of our sources,” Enjolras looked gravely around the table. Bossuet was drowsing off on Joly’s shoulder (who was trying really, _really_ hard not to look disgusted at the drool collecting on his sleeve), Eponine was trying to steal Jehan’s toast, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were glancing at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Undeterred by the lack of interest, Enjolras forged ahead. “Grantaire raised the question of how, if we wish to educate the masses to be able to think for themselves, should we handle the occasional person who truly is incapable of learning— like, for example, Squibs. Suggestions?” he asked, just to be fair. He was pretty sure that nobody would reply.  
To his surprise (and perhaps dismay— his proposal would’ve been much more dramatic had nobody said anything), Grantaire looked up from his oatmeal (oatmeal repulsed Enjolras. Everything was all mixed in and smashed together and messy, and sometimes slimy. _Oatmeal_ was complete anarchy, not libertarianism).  
“Maybe you could point out that your education proposal is for the general populace. Laws should be put in place to protect people who _can’t_ make their own decisions or use magic, but ultimately, the inherent inability of a few shouldn’t hold the rest of society back from enlightenment. It’s not a valid reason to oppose better public education,” Grantaire swirled his straw around in his orange juice self-consciously. “At least, that’s what I’d say…”  
_Maybe he does get it_ , Enjolras conceded, wiping his nose with the napkin that Grantaire handed him. As if on cue, Combeferre paused his ogling at Courfeyrac (who was licking his cereal spoon slowly and _definitely_ knew that Combeferre was watching) to shoot Enjolras an ‘ _I told you so_ ’ look. The breakfast bell rang then, and their plates shimmered before disappearing. Feuilly yelped as Bahorel knocked over the syrup trying to grab at a vanishing croissant.  
“Grantaire, I’ll let you build a case for that. Try to find a few facts before Friday— wait, tomorrow’s Friday. By Monday, then, and Combeferre can review them for you,” Enjolras gathered up his wand and first period books. Grantaire just shrugged as he shoved his wand and a definitely-not-allowed flask into his pocket. Enjolras thought that the flask was part of the reason that Grantaire was so touchy, but the last time he’d said something Grantaire had dumped its contents all over his Defense Against Dark Arts notes. Enjolras settled for a disapproving frown. “We should get to class,” he said, tugging on Courfeyrac’s sleeve.  
Enjolras had taken to walking everywhere with either Courfeyrac or Combeferre (or, if with both, keeping himself firmly in between the two), because the last thing he needed was his vice-president and assistant-to-the-vice-president of debate club getting expelled for public indecency three weeks before semi-finals. It had taken months for Enjolras to realize that his best friends were head-over-heels for each other. He’d first noticed when, a few weeks ago, Courfeyrac had pressed an anxious kiss on Combeferre’s forehead when he’d complained about a headache (“It’s how you’re supposed to tell someone’s temperature!” Courfeyrac had protested afterwards), and the tips of Combeferre’s ears had turned bright red (Enjolras had actually thought that this was a symptom of the flu, and was dutifully reporting the incident to Joly when the realization dawned on him). Post-pouting (he couldn’t _believe_ the unprofessionalism of the whole thing), he’d grabbed Cosette from the Slytherin common room and, together, they’d drawn up a covert operation for keeping Courfeyrac and Combeferre off of each other. Cosette had been mainly unhelpful, insisting that Enjolras was evil to intervene with romance, but she had eventually yielded that, for the time being, it would be too risky for anyone on the debate team to get expelled for fucking in the bathroom. They had all the time in the world to fall in love _after_ debate finals, as far as Enjolras was concerned.  
“Oh, Courf, wait for me… I’ve got to show you what I designed for the Quidditch teams!” Combeferre said excitedly, jumping out of his seat and nervously running his hand through his hair.  
_If he didn’t have so much of it, he’d be bald by now_ , thought Enjolras. Courfeyrac, of course, melted on the spot. He’d told Enjolras just the other day that Combeferre’s “just been fucked” hair was a very good look. Enjolras just thought it made him look like a crazy scientist. They didn’t make it easy for him, these two. They seemed hell-bent on defying Enjolras’ wishes to postpone their whole “falling in love” ordeal.  
“What’d you design, Ferre?” Courfeyrac purred. Jesus Christ, they could make a conversation about knitting sound intimate. Enjolras rolled his eyes meaningfully at Grantaire, but the eye roll (it was a really good one— his eyes smarted a little bit afterwards) was met by Grantaire’s back on its way out of the dining hall.  
“…so in theory, it should sense the ground coming and stop the broom about a foot from impact. I just, um, remembered that one time you almost broke your nose, and I thought this might keep it from happening again,” Combeferre was pointing at sketches of various sensors and bolts on the paper that Courfeyrac was holding and pretending that he didn’t notice his and Courfeyrac’s proximity. Courfeyrac was more interested in staring lovingly into Combeferre’s eyes— his lips were dangerously close to Combeferre’s jaw. Enjolras stumbled towards them, mouth dropping open in disbelief as Combeferre took Courfeyrac’s chin in his hand.  
_Un-fucking-believable_.  
“Speaking of, how’s your bruise from last week?” Combeferre’s finger traced Courfeyrac’s cheek lightly. Enjolras pushed his way in between them, indignant. The bruise was definitely not _that_ close to Courfeyrac’s lower lip.  
“I’m sure he feels fine,” Enjolras said, waspishly pushing them each another two feet apart.  
“Yeah, it’s definitely better now,” blushed Courfeyrac, touching his cheek where Combeferre had traced it.  
_Jesus_ , they were ridiculous. 

# **

In Transfiguration, Enjolras alternated between blocking Courfeyrac’s tickling hexes aimed at Combeferre (childish; that was Enjolras’ opinion) and trying to catch Grantaire’s eye. He’d perfected his eye roll (just in time to use during semi-finals!!), but nobody seemed to appreciate it. Grantaire, for his part, remained riveted on Professor Evergreen as though changing beetles into pennies was the most fascinating, essential spell he’d ever learn. It frustrated Enjolras very much (his eye roll was maybe even better than Eponine’s) and he was considering sending a tickling hex of his own. Before he could make a regrettable decision, the bell rang. Enjolras swept his things up and beelined to Grantaire, who was busily collecting his shiny beetle-pennies into a jar.  
“Hey,” Enjolras began breathlessly (bugs always made him short of breath. They were tied with oatmeal on his list of ‘the most disgusting things in the entire world’). “I just wanted to—”  
“Sorry, I’ve gotta go. I told Mr. Horn that I’d watch the phoenix eggs during my free period. Later.”  
Grantaire pushed past Enjolras, not quite meeting his gaze. Which was probably good, because Enjolras was pitching an absolute fit and scowling like there was no tomorrow.  
_Oh, sure, just blow off a fucking apology_ , he steamed, nearly running Marius over as he blazed a path to Charms class.  
Enjolras remained in his foul mood through Charms, Divination, and Magical History. His nose had started stuffing up again (fucking left nostril!!), and Grantaire had paired with _Ellen fucking Longbottom_ in Divination, leaving Enjolras partnerless. By the time lunch rolled around, Enjolras was practically steaming.  
“You look like someone just mentioned conservatism,” remarked Eponine as Enjolras huffed into his chair. Grantaire was seated across from Eponine, and was studying his full plate like it was the collected works of Socrates. Combeferre and Courfeyrac interrupted their flirting to look up at him concernedly. Enjolras ignored them, stabbing at his chicken temperamentally. The knife skidded across the plate, creating a discord that Enjolras took wicked pleasure in.  
From the other end of the table, Azelma shuddered, looking around for the source of the screeching. She smirked as she saw Eponine, whispering to the girl next to her and walking towards them. Jesus-fuck, that girl had bad timing.  
As the girls sauntered closer, they raised their voices just loud enough to be heard by Eponine and anyone sitting near him.  
“ _I_ heard— oh, shut up,” Azelma giggled. “ _I_ heard that she couldn’t get any dick, so she started telling people she had one.”  
Enjolras stiffened in his chair and looked over at Eponine.  
_Please don’t be listening to them, whatever you do, do not tune in to that conversation..._  
Eponine was staring murderously at the wall behind Grantaire’s head, gripping the sides of his chair tightly.  
“…yeah, she started calling herself a boy like two years ago,” Azlema was saying.  
“Ew!! What the hell? And the headmaster lets her sleep in the Gryffindor boy’s dorms, too?” asked the girl with her.  
Grantaire glanced up at Eponine and shrunk back into his chair at seeing Eponine’s venomous expression— he was boring a hole into the wall, jaw clenched. Confused, Grantaire looked to Enjolras for an explanation. By now, the entire group had fallen silent, and was staring disbelievingly at Azelma.  
_I swear to God_ , Enjolras thought. _She is not fucking…_  
“I don’t know why. Let’s ask her— hey, Thenardier! Hey, I’ve got a question,” Azelma smiled.  
“Go away, please,” Eponine said quietly.  
“No, I don’t think I will. You’re into girls now, aren’t you? Well, I’m a girl. A real girl,” Azelma added, smirking back at her friend. “We were just wondering, why did you start telling everyone that you have a dick?”  
“I never said that. I simply said I am a boy,” glowered Eponine.  
“It’s a wonder you’re passing any of your classes, if you’re that stupid,” smiled Azelma condescendingly. “Boy equals dick— ask any of your gay friends, I’m sure they’ll agree with me. Right, guys?” Azelma’s encouraging look around the table was met by stony silence.  
Azelma tossed her red hair over her shoulder. “Anyway, you never answered the question.”  
Eponine stared down at his lap, tears welling in his eyes. Enjolras felt his face go red with anger. The whole problem with Azelma was that she didn’t know when to quit, and that made her particularly good at being mean. She was from one of the oldest Slytherin families (it was rumored that her mother was the sole heir of the Grimm estates), and bigoted through and through. She’d made taunting Eponine her pet project in third year, when Eponine had spelled himself bald because his aunt wouldn’t let him cut his hair. Things had continued to escalate until “she’s an it!” was scrawled on the covers of all of Eponine’s books after he’d come out as transgender in fifth year. Since then, the school had become almost uniformly accepting, but Azelma… well, Azelma didn’t know when to quit.  
“You need to leave,” said Cosette finally, standing up and smiling tightly. Marius, eyebrows knit together, stood up too, looking almost ready to call over a teacher.  
“It’s my table, too, rich bitch,” retorted Azelma, throwing up an obscene gesture. “Seriously, Thenardier, why’d you start saying you’re a boy? Couldn’t get a guy yourself? Daddy issues?”  
Enjolras clenched his jaw and whipped around in his chair.  
“You—”  
“Actually, Azelma, the real question isn’t why Eponine is a boy, but why you’re such an asshole. I mean, your makeup does look like shit, but I don’t think asses are supposed to smell like a rotting flower garden. You should get that checked out– there's only so much you can blame on a bad perfume.”  
Somebody mumbled an, “Oop, there is is” as the group let out a chorus of snickers. Eponine cracked a small smile, even though his cheeks were damp. Grantaire hadn’t looked up from his ham and cheese sandwich the entire time he’d been speaking, but he looked up now, raising a dark eyebrow innocently at her. Enjolras really loved when his eyebrow did that; daring someone to disagree with him. It made him a really valuable addition to the debate team. Azelma was actually stupid enough to laugh. She _really_ didn’t know when to quit.  
“You’re not actually defending her, are you?” she asked incredulously. He’d had enough of this. Enjolras stood up quietly and stared her in the eye.  
“First of all, it’s ‘he’. I don’t understand how dense you must be to have not caught onto that after two years. Secondly, making disrespectful remarks against another student’s race, religion, sexuality, or gender can get you expelled, and seeing as I’m a prefect, I’m fairly certain that they’ll take whatever recommendation I give them for your expulsion. Thirdly, if you ever try to stir up petty hate like this again, I will air so much of your shit that your reputation will be almost as ruined as your OWL scores. Clear?”  
Enjolras hadn’t expected her to turn, cowering, and slink back to her end of the table. Still, he was content to see her do the Azelma version of that; flipping her hair and laughing back at her friend with a _Can you believe these idiots?_ smirk.  
“Funny how even though you’re a boy now, you don’t have the balls to stand up for yourself,” she tossed back to Eponine, swaying her hips as she walked away and making quotation marks with her fingers when she said ‘boy’.  
“ _Bitch_ ,” Courfeyrac said with disgust after a minute had passed. He turned to Eponine. “She’s nothing, okay? Lower than dust. The only reason she hates you so much is because she’s trivial and she can’t stand when people are different from her,” He took Eponine’s hand and squeezed it.  
Eponine nodded, looking very unconvinced.  
“Just, um… Grantaire, tell Mr. Horn that I won’t be making it to Care of Magical Creatures. I don’t feel well,” he mumbled, pushing his chair back from the table and hurriedly walking away.  
The group fell apart rapidly after that, first Jehan, Joly and Bossuet leaving twenty minutes early for their Magical History class, then Marius and Bahorel with Cosette and Feuilly on their arms for Astronomy and Defense Against Dark Arts. Soon only Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire remained.  
“That was really strong of you, to stand up for Eponine like that,” Enjolras said generously. Grantaire— frustratingly— shrugged his shoulders without looking up from his books. Icy silence settled between the two.  
“Fucking, goddamn, ass-shitting, _fucking_ bitch ass…” Courfeyrac was muttering, clearing his and Combeferre’s Defense Against Dark Arts books off the table.  
“She was just raised to be closed minded, Courf,” Combeferre appealed. Combeferre could always be counted upon to give even the worst person the benefit of the doubt. Usually, Enjolras agreed with him— everyone could learn to become a better person. Enjolras believed that with all of his heart, he truly did, but instances like this tested him.  
They were all startled when Grantaire swore loudly.  
“Fuck, Ferre, how the hell can you believe that? It’s naïve. Some people are just bad people. You can’t go around blaming everyone’s mistakes on the way they were raised or the way they were educated—” he looked meanly at Enjolras “— or their society, whatever the fuck that means. Society is _people_ , and if people are like Azelma,” he broke off with a hollow laugh.  
Enjolras made a frustrated noise. Not _this_ again.  
“You still don’t get it. If we teach everyone, starting at the beginning, to be open minded and kind and peaceful—”  
“I don’t get it. That’s a fucking laugh, Enjolras,” hissed Grantaire. “News flash: people _aren’t_ open minded, or kind, or peaceful. _We’re_ not even open minded or kind or peaceful with _each other_ , and we’re fucking friends. So, yeah, I don’t get it.”  
“No!” Enjolras yelled, frustrated. “You never fucking get it. You take everything personally, you have no faith in people— you don’t even have faith in yourself!” he finished, exasperated. A moment later, he dropped his eyes.  
_Fuck, that came out way wrong_.  
Whenever somebody hurt Grantaire, it always flashed in his eyes for a moment before his walls flew up. Enjolras could see his hurt right there, in the corners of Grantaire’s eyes that normally lifted up when he smiled. They looked very, very tired, and full of so many emotions that Enjolras was surprised that they weren’t constantly filled with tears. Like brooding, flint-colored wells. The hurt traveled to Grantaire’s cheeks and made them tinge pink and his mouth go stiff (that was the worst part, because usually Grantaire’s mouth looked like it was trying to decide whether to curse you or kiss you, but when he was hurt it seemed like all of his good, interesting, poetic words were being held captive. That’s why his smiles were so special, because it was like every good thought that had ever gone through Grantaire’s head was coming at you in one brief rush)(to clarify: Enjolras didn’t think that Grantaire’s smiles were special, _other_ people did, probably). Then his eyes looked like metal.  
“I don’t see how the fuck you think that you’re ever going to make a difference,” Grantaire spat, and walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow lmao why is my writing so angsty??????// mystery of the universe tbh sorry for this  
> other happenings: enj is shit @ apologizing lmao i'm so frustrated with him wyd buddy


	3. Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a really big crush

Grantaire hadn’t been in his right mind all morning.  
It was definitely that stupid navy sweater. Of course, before breakfast, he’d felt very much right minded. Enjolras thought that he was mad at him again, which Grantaire took perverse pleasure in. It was a small solace, to have Enjolras groveling for a little while. Grantaire halfway believed that he had a right to make Enjolras chase after him every once in awhile, especially since Enjolras obstinately remained blind to Grantaire’s affections. Years of unrequited love, validated by a few hours of watching Enjolras stumble through an apology. Pathetic, Grantaire knew, but who would judge the unloved soul?  
That fucking navy sweater, apparently. One moment, Grantaire had been showing Jehan how many grapes he could fit in his mouth, and the next, the grapes were scattered across the floor. His jaw was broken, probably, because it was hanging open like it was on a hinge.  
“Drool much,” Eponine had whispered when he’d sat down beside Jehan.  
Or maybe Bossuet had said it. Grantaire wasn’t sure, because he was staring, heat rising to his cheeks, at Enjolras in the navy sweater.  
“Oh, fffffffff _uck me_ ,” Grantaire breathed, tearing his eyes away from Enjolras’ chest to stare into the nearest dish— oatmeal. Which, by the way, Grantaire _hated_. Who did Enjolras think he was, walking around here, looking like a goddamned fallen angel (emphasize on _fallen_ , because that sweater was sinful)(‘ _Knit from sin_ ’, the tag probably said. ‘ _Hypoallergenic, made in Satan’s loins. Hand wash in hellfire_ ’).  
It was technically Courfeyrac’s fault. Enjolras probably hadn’t even looked in the mirror before he’d left his dorm this morning, but Courfeyrac… Courfeyrac was a sneaky bastard. Every year, he got Enjolras something that was especially flattering, because Enjolras couldn’t be bothered to think twice about dressing himself presentably. Of course, Enjolras always looked good— it was physically impossible for him not to— but Courfeyrac had a knack for finding the perfect tee-shirt to show off Enjolras’ (obscene) biceps, or a tie that made his eyes look like emeralds. Once, Courfeyrac had gotten Enjolras a pair of skinny jeans for Christmas, and Grantaire had actually fainted because all of the blood left his head at once. He hadn’t ventured further than the Hufflepuff common room for a week after that, out of embarrassment (needless to say, Enjolras— bless his heart— had actually thought he was sick).  
That morning, things quickly spiraled downhill from ‘angsty attention game’ into ‘survival’. Courfeyrac, damn him, had picked the type of navy that made Enjolras’ bright eyes look hazy, like he’d just gotten high or had an orgasm, or both. The sweater was from last year, because it was stretched slightly tight across Enjolras’ broad chest. Every time he took a breath or moved, Grantaire could see his muscles expand and loosen and move all around underneath the soft-looking swathe of blue. Grantaire had almost moaned when Enjolras reached for the pitcher of milk. To cope, he’d emptied the rest of his scotch into his orange juice and downed the whole thing in one gulp, and refusing to so much as glance at Enjolras throughout the day. On it went throughout the morning, from blowing Enjolras off after Transfiguration (how was he supposed to deal with early-morning Enjolras, begging forgiveness, in a tight sweater?!) to pairing with Ellen in Divination (she smelled like mothballs, but Grantaire was absolutely, under no circumstances doing a mind reading activity with navy-sweater Enjolras. Ever). In fact, most of his indiscretions throughout the day could be chalked up to the navy sweater.  
“I don’t see how the fuck you think that you’re ever going to make a difference” was not one of them. That was Grantaire’s own unpleasantness, and (even though he wished he could blame it on the sweater) had nothing to do with any of Enjolras’ clothes. Truthfully, it had more to do with Enjolras saying that he took everything too personally and had no faith in anything or anyone. He hadn’t intended to react so strongly— looking back, Enjolras probably hadn’t even meant it. Perhaps that was the worst part: Enjolras hadn’t meant it, but Grantaire had.  
Or maybe Enjolras had meant it. Even then, Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to be upset at Enjolras; he was probably right. Strictly speaking, Grantaire was to blame for the incident. When Enjolras, looking gloriously flustered and navy, had complimented _Grantaire_ — for a remark that wasn’t really even in good debate form! (it was a low blow, but Grantaire wasn’t really thinking of the validity of his retort when Azelma walked over)— every bit of longing that Grantaire had been busily stuffing into an unspeakably dirty corner of his mind came bursting forth. Angry at himself, he’d acted horribly to his friends. Combeferre’s remark simply gave him something other than himself to be angry at. He’d overreacted to everything, and probably hurt Combeferre’s feelings (which would, at least, give Courfeyrac an excuse to suck him off. Sad Combeferre was, admittedly, adorable), and had actually, truly fucked things up with Enjolras (who would probably never talk to him ever again).  
Enjolras was justified in his remark— it was true, Grantaire was a pessimist. So what; the boy he loved seemed to hate him and everyone always managed to take advantage of him. It only made sense to be a pessimist. Grantaire believed in Enjolras, because… well, Enjolras. He was a desert and a hurricane, and overwhelmingly good and noble; he was electrifying and tranquil all at once (Jehan had said that once at a debate club meeting. Grantaire rather thought it had a ring to it). But Enjolras didn’t have another Enjolras to believe in (even if there were another Enjolras, he wouldn’t be as good as this one). He actually believed in change, and the goodness of humankind. Grantaire, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why. Grantaire had meant what he said. How the fuck did Enjolras think he’d ever make a difference? That was exactly the point, probably. Enjolras was inspiring because he just _did_ believe in humanity. Asking him why was like asking fish why they swim. It made Enjolras who he was, and there wasn’t a how or a why.  
Mr. Horn motioned Grantaire over to hold up the stalk of a carnivorous plant, so he shook himself off and donned his gloves.  
_He will never forgive me_ , he thought.

# **

Grantaire stood outside of the door to Potions class, waiting for the bell to ring and make up his mind for him. He’d been pacing the hall for ten minutes, ducking behind a tapestry when Joly, Cosette, and Combeferre arrived, looking concerned. Probably trying to figure out a way to cheer Eponine up. Courfeyrac sprinted through the hall a few minutes later, motioning wildly at Combeferre just as he opened the door. Enjolras skidded around the corner after a moment, placing himself sternly between the two as Courfeyrac tried in vain to hold Combeferre’s hand.  
“It’s _palm reading_ , Enjolras, good grief— move!” Courfeyrac said, clearly irritated.  
“It’s useless and unreliable magic,” dismissed Enjolras. “And I’m trying to walk to class. Come on.”  
“We’ll be in, just let me show Ferre this—”  
“Show both of us later,” Enjolras scowled. “You’re making Combeferre late, let’s go.”  
Even from behind a hanging carpet, Grantaire could see that Enjolras was upset. His shoulders were all wrong— normally, they were tall and confident in the most natural way. Now, they were pushed stiffly back and the muscles were all rigid (stupid, _stupid_ navy sweater…), like Enjolras was carrying something immensely heavy. His voice was sharper than normal, too. It made Grantaire sick, knowing that he (Grantaire, the bumbling pessimist) had done this to Enjolras (the desert and hurricane, etc., etc.).  
So, he stood outside the door of Potions, debating whether to face Enjolras or to go lie down in the Hufflepuff dorms and feign ill. Professor Aulder glanced up at the door, and, seeing Grantaire, motioned him in.  
_Fuck_ , he thought resignedly.  
“Good of you to join us, Grantaire,” beamed Professor Aulder just as the bell rang. “Please take a seat next to Mr. Enjolras so that we can get started. Today, we will practice making _Amortentia_. Enjolras, why don’t you describe this potion to the class.”  
Enjolras stared straight ahead as Grantaire lowered himself carefully into his seat, accidentally hitting Enjolras’ arm with his wand. Enjolras’ arm rippled— _rippled_ , fucking hell— and he clenched his jaw, before clearing his throat.  
“ _Amortentia_ is a potion originating from what is now Eastern Europe. It’s purpose is to induce a brief ‘love spell’ on whoever drinks it. It has been used most famously in the case of Helen of Troy, who was spelled into boarding the King of Troy’s ship. I believe that it should be outlawed, but for some reason the Ministry doesn’t see dozens of rapes and scams as reason enough to—”  
“Thank you, Enjolras, I think you’ve covered the basics. As I was saying, you will work in pairs to develop a stable _Amortentia_ potion. To save time, I’ve written partners on the chalkboard. Please send one partner up to the front of the class to get supplies.”  
Anxiously, Grantaire squinted for his name on the board.

_Grantaire/Combeferre_

Thank _God_. Courfeyrac, after a reluctant split from Combeferre, dropped into the seat beside Enjolras and began grounding a twisted root, shooting longing glances back at Combeferre.  
“Why don’t you start grating the root, and I’ll— um…” Combeferre trailed off as Courfeyrac stretched, his shirt lifting to expose the edge of his baby-blue boxers and a happy trail. Enjolras turned around to ask Courfeyrac something and bugged his eyes at Courfeyrac’s sensual pose. Glancing back at Combeferre (who looked down guiltily), Enjolras yanked Courfeyrac shirt down over his waistband, alarmed. Grantaire almost snorted at Enjolras. _He probably doesn’t even realize that his best friends are in love_ , he mused.  
Grantaire and Combeferre worked quickly in a comfortable silence, peppered with coy glances on the parts of Combeferre and Courfeyrac (who had even gone so far as to lick a root because, he protested to Enjolras, he’d wondered if it had a taste)(Combeferre had paled a little bit then). When Enjolras and Courfeyrac went to the front of the class to present their (very badly done) potion, Combeferre turned to Grantaire.  
“Do you want to talk about what happened at lunch?” he asked. Grantaire sighed; he’d known something like this was coming. Always count on Combeferre to mend things.  
“I don’t see what there is to talk about,” Grantaire said slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stirred the concoctions three times, counter-clockwise.  
“I’m sure Enjolras feels terrible about what he said,” Combeferre said sensibly.  
Grantaire dropped the spoon in frustration.  
“Enjolras has nothing to feel bad about, because he was right. _I_ fucked up. I fucked up really, really badly and I don’t know how to fix it because you can’t just say sorry to something like that. I don’t even know why I said it,” Grantaire finished sadly. Enjolras was arguing with Professor Aulder, who was poking through the cauldron as if it might explode.  
“…not even a _morally_ sound potion… _why_ we have to learn it…” Enjolras’ snappy words wafted across the room, as Courfeyrac rested his chin on his hand and stared dreamily at Combeferre. To Grantaire’s surprise, Combeferre steadfastly ignored Courfeyrac.  
“I think you do know why you said it,” said Combeferre gently, looking up from the bubbling elixir. Grantaire felt like the ground was trying to pull him down to its level.  
“I… I do know why I _thought_ it, but I wish I’d never said it. It came out all wrong. I _always_ wonder how he thinks he can do anything to change people. I don’t understand it, but it’s what makes him… so…” Grantaire trailed off, dispirited.  
“Tell him that,” said Combeferre decisively. It was always so easy for Combeferre to apologize. He hardly ever made people upset, and he was so fucking calm and kind that nobody could hold a grudge.  
“He’s never going to speak to me again. I wouldn’t, if I were him.”  
“Grantaire, stop acting like you already know everything about Enjolras. He’s his own person, and there’s no way you can know who he will or won’t talk to; what he will or won’t feel bad about; even who he will or won’t lov—”  
Combeferre cut himself short as Enjolras and Courfeyrac walked back to their seats, their cauldron letting off a green aura. Definitely not right.  
“I _told_ you, half of a mushroom, _then_ stir,” Enjolras was saying, frowning down at Courfeyrac (who was, predictably, looking at Combeferre like he was the sun). Grantaire nudged the tall boy beside him  
“Ferre,”  
“Hmm?”  
“I think you should ask Courfeyrac on a date.”  
Combeferre ran a hand through his hair, knocking his glasses lower on his nose.  
“Hmm.”

# **

Grantaire had decided that he would save himself some heartache and assume that he _did_ already know how Enjolras would react to an apology. He could see it now; himself on his knees begging for forgiveness, with a seed of hope for redemption blossoming in his heart.  
_“Enjolras, forgive me. Of course you can change things, you are a desert and a hurricane,” he would say. “Enjolras, I’m so sorry. I was wrong, you are open minded and kind and peaceful. You can make people want to be that way.”_  
Enjolras would walk away then (because why on earth would he forgive Grantaire, the bumbling pessimist?), and Grantaire would have nobody to blame but himself for his heartbreak. The more he thought about it, the more Grantaire was convinced that leaving Enjolras alone was the more respectful option. Grantaire didn’t deserve the opportunity to apologize; he deserved to live in misery and never look Enjolras (the electrifying and tranquil, etc.) in the eye again. Enjolras would go on to change the world and inspire people, and someone more deserving than Grantaire would receive Enjolras’ eye rolls and lectures and, once in awhile, compliments. It made Grantaire feel positively nauseous.  
That’s how Grantaire ended up sitting on Joly’s left side at dinner, as far away from Enjolras’ chair between Combeferre and Courfeyrac as possible.  
“Sorry,” Joly mumbled for the fourth time, knocking into Grantaire’s drinking glass with his elbow (again). “You _did_ know I was left-handed Grantaire.”  
Joly was right, Grantaire should’ve known better than to sit to his left at dinner. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been thinking about that when he’d picked his seat— he’d been thinking about how Enjolras’ jaw had locked up when Grantaire had brushed his arm in Potions, and how the _Amortentia_ had smelled like late nights and oak and Enjolras’ toothpaste. Also, Grantaire had been thinking about how if he had to sit in Enjolras’ immediate vicinity, he’d probably explode. Or scream. Or both.  
As it turned out, Grantaire had nothing to worry about, because Enjolras didn’t show up for dinner. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the only two who knew about the fight, looked concernedly at Grantaire, then put their heads together, whispering. Probably discussing Enjolras’ too-tight shoulders and his sharp voice and his clenching jaw. Grantaire dropped his fork back onto his plate, food untouched.  
He needed a walk.

# **

Enjolras did make an appearance at breakfast the next morning, wearing a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons mostly undone. Grantaire felt his cheeks redden, and stubbornly inspected his toast until the bell rang and it started to disappear.  
“Grantaire,” someone called, but he was already walking out of the dining hall. He didn’t deserve to let any of his friends cheer him up.  
In Transfiguration, Grantaire loitered around outside until he was a good ten minutes late, then dropped into a seat at the very back of the class. ‘ _Transfigure me into a corpse_ ’ was scratched into the wooden edge of the desk. Grantaire thought it was very fitting. From this seat, he could see that Enjolras had forgotten to brush his hair, and his blonde ringlets were sticking up in tufts at the top of his head. Grantaire felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut. As soon as the bell rang, he rushed out of the class, feeling hassled and blushing furiously.  
Free period at Care of Magical Creatures proved not to be much of a reprieve. Grantaire spent the hour pretending that he didn’t see Enjolras through the third story window, scowling at his desk as he tried to levitate it.  
Grantaire refused to look at Enjolras through History of Magic or Divination, and took his lunch back to the Hufflepuff common room. Days passed as Grantaire dodged Enjolras, ducking behind statues or staring at the floor. Grantaire was (deservedly) miserable.

# **

A month had successfully passed without Grantaire allowing himself so much as a glance at Enjolras. Not that it had been easy. Last week, Enjolras had tried to apprehend Grantaire in the garden to do a last-minute review of their debate points, and a few days before that he’d tried to stop him after dinner to discuss Transfiguration homework. It seemed like every day, Enjolras had tried to detain him for something. Every time he snubbed Enjolras, Grantaire felt his stomach twist painfully.  
“Combeferre will be more helpful,” Grantaire had said, slipping away each time. Grantaire refused to let Enjolras forgive him. _This_ was justice; not letting himself appreciate how Enjolras’ nose bunched up at the top while he was thinking, or how he licked his lips before answering a question, or how he clasped his hands together behind his back when he got nervous. Justice felt nauseating.  
Grantaire bit his lip as he focused on the bowl of soup in front of him. He saw Enjolras’ shadow sit down across from him, between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were ( _still_ ) flirting demurely with one another. If Grantaire hadn’t been punishing himself, he might’ve been rewarded with an eye roll from Enjolras.  
_These two are ridiculous_ , the eye roll would say.  
Grantaire would’ve scrunched his nose back. _Revolting, isn’t it?_  
But Enjolras wouldn’t roll his eyes, because Grantaire didn’t deserve it. Grantaire hung his head so low that his nose brushed a piece of chicken sticking out of the soup. The group sat chattering amongst themselves, with Jehan trying to charm Eponine’s soup spoon alive. Eponine had since recovered from the Azelma incident, thanks to several late nights of drinking and crying, courtesy of Courfeyrac (it also didn’t hurt that the Resident Slytherin Bitch had gotten suspended). Now, Eponine was swatting Jehan’s wand away and trying to catch Grantaire’s eye.  
_Are you okay?_ he mouthed. Grantaire only nodded and focused his attention on Marius, who was animatedly sharing his plans for Christmas break. Cosette leaned lovingly against him, playing with the frayed ends of his Hufflepuff scarf.  
“We’re going to my grandfather’s estate for the first half of the week, since he’ll be away on a business trip,” Marius was saying. “We could all have a party!”  
As Marius spoke, the dining hall was filled with the _swoosh_ of hundreds of wings; owls bearing the first Christmas gifts of the season.  
“Yes!” smiled Joly, ripping open his package. “A muggle stethoscope,” he grinned proudly at Bossuet, holding up a metal contraption for everyone to admire. Bossuet, who obviously had no idea what it was, nodded appreciatively.  
Enjolras made a choking sound as he wrenched a letter out of a cream envelope.  
“Shut up, everybody, shut up!” he said feverishly. “It’s the semi-final results!”  
The group fell into a hushed silence as Enjolras read the letter aloud.  
“‘…We are proud to present Monsieur Grantaire with special acknowledgement for his eloquent defense of his team’s point…’! Grantaire, are you listening? They mentioned you specifically!” Enjolras was grinning widely at him when he looked up. “They wrote your _name_ , Taire!”  
Grantaire thought he might be sick. Enjolras’ smile, and his hand on Grantaire’s arm, and— _fuck_ , was there any rest for the weary— the navy sweater. Too much, it was all too much. Grantaire quickly stood up.  
“You deserved to win semi-finals, Enjolras, congratulations,” he mumbled, rushing out of the dining room.  
His chest clenched as he heard Enjolras, sounding wounded, behind him.  
“Ferre, what did I do this time?”  
Grantaire thought about screaming.  
_Nothing, Enjolras. You did nothing, you are the desert and a hurricane…_  
Grantaire barreled into the hallway, and stalked towards the stairs. He needed to get away; he couldn’t breathe or think or even see because, goddammit, now his eyes were all blurry with tears. He took the stairs to the abandoned Astronomy tower two at a time, heaving because his chest felt like it was being ripped open. Finally, he sunk against the door on the top step, hanging his head in his hands.  
_“I don’t see how the fuck you think that you’re ever going to make a difference.”_  
Grantaire wanted to throw himself over the ramparts. He wanted to go lay in the moat until he drowned, or was eaten. He wanted to never move from his step at the top of the Astronomy tower. The way he saw it, that would be best. The bumbling pessimist, Grantaire, living out his lonely, miserable life at the top of an abandoned staircase. The natural order restored to the world. Grantaire couldn’t say how long he’d sat on the step, head in his hands. Eventually, the stones around him grew cold and he wiped the tears trailing down his cheeks away with his scarf. Grantaire got up, giving up hope of turning into a stone himself.  
_“You have no faith in people— you don’t even have faith in yourself!”_ Enjolras had said.  
_Wrong_ , thought Grantaire, slowly descending the staircase. _I have faith in you_.  
Grantaire wandered the halls, too upset to go to bed and unwilling to face his dorm mates. Courfeyrac would hassle him to talk about it, and Bossuet would start telling stupid jokes to cheer him up, and Marius might start crying because he absolutely _hated_ it when any of his friends were upset. So Grantaire roamed the empty halls on his own, feeling numb and heavy all over. Eventually, he found himself face-to-face with a door that he could swear he’d never seen before in his seven years at Hogwarts. He tried the handle apprehensively. At least if there was a dragon, or some other deadly creature, he had a chance at becoming a ghost, which was kind of intriguing. Mostly he was hoping for a room full of fluffy blankets and alcohol.  
The door sprang open as soon as Grantaire touched the handle. Skittish, he peered inside. The room was clean, and full of papers. Everywhere— papers stuck to the unlit chandelier, papers in piles on a desk and under chairs and spread out like jigsaw pieces on the floor. A large window near the back of the room illuminated a rug on the floor, as scraps of paper whirled lazily around the room. The blue light from the moon fell across Grantaire’s face as he stepped, silently, through the doorway. Snow collected on the window sill in shiny hills.  
Spying a couch in the shadows under the window, Grantaire let out a breath of relief and closed the door behind him. Finally, a place to sit and mope in peace.  
“Grantaire?” asked someone from behind the bookcase.  
_Jesus-fuck_. Grantaire jumped nearly out of his skin, eyes wide. Enjolras, in his navy sweater, stepped out into the moonlight. His face was drawn up into a worried frown.  
“There you are! We were looking everywhere for you, Joly was nearly shitting himself because he thought you’d catch a cold…”  
_Abort, abort, abort_ , Grantaire thought, turning for the door. Enjolras should not be worried about _Grantaire_ , Enjolras should not be frowning because of Grantaire, Enjolras should _definitely_ not be touching Grantaire’s wrist. Enjolras should be completely ignoring Grantaire.  
“Listen, Grantaire, please, I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks—”  
Grantaire considered his options:  
1\. run (he didn’t know where the fucking door had gone, though)  
2\. fight (he _really_ didn’t want to break Enjolras’ nose)  
3\. say something stupid (again).  
“Enjolras, stop. _Stop_ , let go of me. I don’t want your apology,” Grantaire said, panicked. Enjolras stilled, his eyes going hard and hurt.  
“Why not?”  
Grantaire thought about crying again. Why did he always fuck it up?  
“Because…” Grantaire had no idea where to start. _Because you’re the desert and a hurricane. Because you’re electrifying and tranquil._  
“Because you have nothing to apologize for,” concluded Grantaire. _Fuck…_  
“Yes, I do!! I said something terrible to you, and I didn’t even mean it,” Enjolras was pleading. His eyes looked like they were trying to save Grantaire’s life. _Too much, too much_.  
“No, goddammit, Enjolras, you’re fucking right, okay? I fuck everything up, just like I fucked up with you. Of course you’ll make a fucking difference, you’re the type of person that people change for,” Grantaire was definitely maybe going to start crying. Enjolras’ hand moveed to his shoulder. “And now I’ve fucked up, and you’re going to roll your eyes and argue with someone who is a million times better than I’ll ever b—”  
Enjolras swore loudly.  
“That’s not _fucking_ true, you fucking— goddamned—” Enjolras trailed off, apparently at a loss for words.  
“Let me guess,” said Grantaire coldly. _Don’t say it_ , he thought to himself. _He is the desert…_ “I just ‘don’t get it’? Right? Because I never fucking get it,” _…and a hurricane_. Grantaire had halfway hoped that Enjolras would spin on his heel and leave. That’s what he should’ve done, that’s what Grantaire deserved. Maybe if Enjolras would punish Grantaire by hating him, Grantaire could stop punishing himself.  
Grantaire’s breath hitched when Enjolras kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a feeling that taire unironically hijacks some of jehan's more exaggerated poetry when it comes 2 enj lmao


	4. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras makes a bomb

Kissing Grantaire was like whispering a prayer, it was that sacred-feeling. Except a million times more sinful. It was exhilarating. Enjolras had been worried for a split second after he’d pressed his lips against Grantaire’s, that maybe he’d done something horribly wrong. He hadn’t known what else to do— Grantaire _really_ didn’t get it. He was going on about how terrible and unworthy he was, and Enjolras couldn’t stand the way that the hurt had flashed all over Grantaire’s face. Even his walls were broken. Grantaire had shot Enjolras the same hurt look moments before he’d stumbled out of the dining room. Enjolras hadn’t known what he’d done— Grantaire had been ignoring him, he knew, but he hadn’t seemed quite so _broken_.  
When Enjolras said that they’d all spent hours looking for Grantaire, it was kind of a lie. The group had halfheartedly poked their noses in all of the common rooms and in the garden before deciding that Grantaire just “needed time”. Enjolras was the one who’d walked around until the sun had set, calling Grantaire’s name throughout the school grounds. Eventually, he’d stumbled across the Map Room (which he’d lost in fourth year) and was poking around inside, looking for the map to the Catacombs (maybe Grantaire liked to take walks around eerie underground tunnels when he was upset?) when the door had opened.  
Enjolras had been so relieved to see Grantaire that he hadn’t thought of the possibility of giving him a heart attack as he’d stepped out from behind the bookcase.  
_Idiot_ , Enjolras thought, crumpling a pile of maps under his foot. _He could’ve walked in on the Dragon Room or the Poltergeist Room…_ When Grantaire saw Enjolras, he recoiled like he’d seen a snake. _No, shit, don’t do this again._  
Enjolras made a wild grab for Grantaire’s hand as he turned to leave. _Don’t leave, let me say this_.  
“Listen, Grantaire, please,” Enjolras couldn’t think straight, and his hand felt sweaty on Grantaire’s wrist.  
“I don’t want your apology,” Grantaire spat, trying to pull away. _He’s just trying to protect himself from feeling hurt_ , Enjolras reminded himself. That’s what Combeferre had said he’d do. Still, Enjolras couldn’t quite stop the venom from creeping into his voice.  
“Why not?”  
Enjolras hadn’t expected Grantaire to say that he’d been right. When he did, Enjolras’ heart doubled in on itself and his chest felt painfully tight. _What the fuck…_  
“…someone who is a million times better than I’ll ever be,” Grantaire finished.  
_No_ , Enjolras wanted to scream. _You don’t get it!_ But words had gotten him nowhere thus far, so Enjolras had simply closed his eyes and tried to press his meaning into Grantaire.  
At first, Grantaire remained as still as a statue. But now, he was doing something with his chin, moving it forward like he was trying to drink Enjolras in, that was driving Enjolras mad. Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s hand resting on his chest, and it made him feel like there was fire there. Scratch that, there was fire everywhere. Grantaire raked his fingers gently down Enjolras’ chest, causing Enjolras to make a noise in the back of his throat. He tugged on Grantaire’s lip, wanting to see it pink and swollen. _Please get it now_ , Enjolras thought. Grantaire pulled back from the kiss, his head hanging forward like his neck couldn’t quite support him.  
“Wait… wait, let me… let me apologize,” Grantaire panted. Christ, not this again.  
“It’s behind us now, Taire, let’s just forget it,” Enjolras whispered. He felt like a bomb might go off. Grantaire’s eyes looked metal again, but it was a different kind. They flashed. He looked crazy.  
“I’m sorry for doubting you,” he whispered, so close that Enjolras could feel the words on his lips. “You are a hurricane in a desert—”  
“You sound like a crazy person.”  
“Shh. You are good— like, ‘knight in shining armor’ good— and noble, and electrifyingly tranquil—”  
“Grantaire, you’re insane.”  
“I know! I’m not done. You make me feel like I can’t do anything, but you also make me feel like I could conquer the world. You make me _sick_ ,” Grantaire’s mouth was already hovering over his. His eyes looked like the ocean in a storm. _Ka-boom_ , the kiss exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slakdjfhdjksh smut coming up lol just warning you all,,,,,,,,,


	5. Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: smut ahead

He traced Enjolras’ chest all the way down to the waistband of his jeans. Enjolras’ body was a work of art, warm and heaving under Grantaire’s fingers. Grantaire hooked his fingers through Enjolras’ belt loops and deepened the kiss, letting his tongue skim Enjolras’. Enjolras was moaning, actually _moaning_ , into Grantaire’s mouth. Enjolras moved his hand to Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire let himself be pulled forward, the two of them stumbling across the room.  
Enjolras fell backwards onto the couch, leaving Grantaire gasping for air.  
“Come _here_ ,” Enjolras whispered roughly, tugging Grantaire in by the waist.  
Grantaire toppled on top of Enjolras in a tangle of limbs, trying to tell Enjolras a secret through his mouth. _I’m in love with a desert and a hurricane_. Enjolras moved against him, arching his back as Grantaire bit a kiss under his jaw. Enjolras’ stubble burned deliciously against Grantaire’s swollen lips. _Too much, too much…_ He felt like he’d been cut off from oxygen when Enjolras pushed him back to the other side of the couch.  
_This is where he leaves me_ , Grantaire realized.  
Enjolras didn’t leave. He lifted the navy sweater over his head and tossed it aside, pulling Grantaire back on top of him. Grantaire shivered as Enjolras slid his hands under his shirt, tracing up his chest faintly. Lifting his hands, Grantaire let Enjolras pull his shirt off. Grantaire was gasping. Enjolras kissed the tender part of his throat, sucking hard. Grantaire thought about exploding.  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Enjolras whined. Grantaire never wanted to stop peppering kisses along his jaw. He kept drawing lazy circles, letting his fingers skim Enjolras’ lower stomach. Enjolras bucked his hips, whimpering, as Grantaire undid the button of his jeans, breaking the kiss to look Enjolras in the eye.  
_Is this okay?_  
Enjolras rolled his eyes. _Yes_.  
Palming Enjolras through his pants, Grantaire lowered his lips back down to Enjolras’ throat, feeling Enjolras’ moans vibrate on his lips. Before he lost all of his courage, Grantaire found the waistband of his own jeans and tugged down. His hands were shaking, and he couldn’t get his fingers to work. It didn’t help that Enjolras was ministering relentlessly to the place on his neck where his jaw met his ear. It gave him goosebumps, and he never wanted it to stop— except his hands kept slipping off of his fucking zipper.  
“Here, let me,” Enjolras whispered gently. Grantaire leaned back, admiring the way that Enjolras’ hair tumbled over his brow, and the way that he was panting like he’d been running as fast as he could. “There,” Enjolras said at last, rolling down the waistband of Grantaire’s jeans. Grantaire slid them the rest of the way off and let them fall beside the couch. He had goosebumps all over now, and it wasn’t from the cold. Enjolras crawled forward, situating himself on top of Grantaire.  
“I’ve always wanted to try this,” he muttered, almost to himself. Grantaire let out a nervous laugh that died in his throat as soon as it had begun.  
“Glad to be a guinea pig,” he said, his voice going rough around the edges as Enjolras slid his hand in between Grantaire’s legs.  
“No,” Enjolras shook his head. “I’ve always wanted to try this with _you_.”  
Grantaire felt like he was made of butterflies, or fire, or a bomb. Enjolras’ hand gripped his thigh suddenly when Grantaire leaned forward to kiss his torso. He especially seemed to like it when Grantaire ghosted his ribcage, reverently looking for the perfect nook to press another kiss into. Grantaire didn’t want to just kiss Enjolras, he wanted to make each movement as deliberate as the stroke of a brush. He wanted to leave a perfectly painted trail of love bites and scratches. Each hickey was it’s own masterpiece; nothing less would suffice. Kisses to Enjolras had to be pristine.  
“Stop, wait,” Enjolras groaned. Grantaire shrank back into himself. He’d gone too far, maybe he’d bitten too hard or too much, or maybe Enjolras was realizing that this whole situation was completely ridiculous.  
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— I mean, I—” Grantaire fumbled to apologize.  
“No, no, it’s not that. I just… want to focus on what I’m going to do.” Enjolras was looking tenderly at Grantaire’s lips, eyes gleaming. Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras’ mouth was back on his, coaxing it open. Their heavy breaths filled the room, echoing off the walls. Grantaire tensed as Enjolras slid his hand around his length.  
“Shit,” he groaned. He clutched at Enjolras’ shoulders, his nails leaving rows of crescent-shaped red marks. Enjolras was, honestly, _really_ fucking good at this. His thumb teased the tip and he moved his hand faster, encouraging Grantaire to come apart at his fingertips. Enjolras watched Grantaire’s face intently between kisses, making sure that he was doing everything right. Grantaire was a mess, sweat collecting in beads on his exposed chest, and everything was burning. The air smelled like oak and Enjolras’ toothpaste. Grantaire’s moans were getting shorter and more desperate, more like whimpers. There were red welts on Enjolras’ chest, and the knot in Grantaire’s stomach was making it hard to breath. _Too much, too much_. His gasps ended in raspy sighs. With a final jerk, Enjolras leaned into Grantaire, his own hard-on pressing against Grantaire’s leg.  
“Come for me, angel-face,” he growled. Grantaire did.  
Grantaire felt the knot in his stomach burst in a flurry of heat and tremors and moans, burying his face in Enjolras’ shoulder. _Fuck_. Coolness blossomed all the way up his chest as his breathing slowed. He sank into the couch, still numbly pressing kisses all over Enjolras’ neck. Gradually, Grantaire became aware of the pressure on his leg and Enjolras’ barely muffled moans as he tried to subtly grind into Grantaire. He sat up, hovering over Enjolras’ mouth and memorizing the way that his brow was drawn up and how his shoulders shivered when Grantaire laid his cold fingers on them.  
“Here, let me,” Grantaire whispered gently.  
He made love to Enjolras like he was painting a masterpiece, purposefully and carefully and intently.

# **

Early-morning sunlight filtered in through the window, making the snow outside look like it was glowing. It was the type of sunlight that appeared when the world hadn’t quite woken up; darkness still tinged the horizon and the sky was mostly an assortment of greys and pinks. Grantaire tried to sit up, disoriented, but a warm person was lying on top of him, snoring lightly.  
“Stop moving,” groaned the person. “It’s too fucking early…”  
Grantaire kissed Enjolras’ lips, just because he could. The soft grey-blue light illuminated Enjolras’ sleepy smile. It was the type of smile that people wrote poems and chiseled sculptures of, so that they wouldn’t forget it. It was the type of smile that belonged to a God. Grantaire grinned back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck meeeeee :') id also like 2 take this moment 2 thank Hugo for that part in the book where grantaire's inner thoughts on enj are revealed and he calls enjolras an angel come to earth,,, its fitting that enj sees the same in taire rite ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ anyway if ur wondering where "angel-face" came from thats my own gratuitous headcanon
> 
> we're almost to the end :'))))))


	6. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras had a cold.

Grantaire had the type of smile that Gods left Olympus for.

# **

When Enjolras saw Grantaire at breakfast, his heart flipped inside his chest and made him feel dizzy. He’d meant to start preparing the group for debate finals (which were only two months away), but when he sat down he couldn’t think of anything but the way that Grantaire’s nose wrinkled at Feuilly, who was eating oatmeal, or his barely-there dimples as he looked up at Enjolras.  
“Morning, angel-face,” he said sportively. Enjolras’ insides went all gooey (like chocolate syrup or marshmallows, not gross-gooey like oatmeal).  
“Did you bang each other,” Eponine whispered loudly. Like, really loudly. Jehan looked up and raised an accusing eyebrow at Enjolras. “Because you’re totally acting like you banged him.”  
Enjolras made a _tsk_ sound and acted like he hadn’t heard.  
“Should I bring a sign to the game next weekend?” Combeferre asked, leaning around Enjolras to look playfully at Courfeyrac. “Just to remind you: ‘Go Courf! Don’t break nose!’?”  
Courfeyrac threw his head back, giggling. “You just promised me that you’re coming,” he said, pushing his chair back. “I’m holding you to that.” He ruffled Combeferre’s hair with relish as he passed by.  
“Of course I’m coming, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Combeferre grinned. “I mean, it’s Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff. I have to support my house,” he added hurriedly when he noticed Enjolras and Grantaire, watching him with amusement. Blushing furiously, Courfeyrac practically skipped over to the Gryffindor table to drag Feuilly and Bahorel away from their arm wrestling contest and back to the group.  
Enjolras nudged his friend, who had clumsily knocked over his tea and was running a hand through his hair agitatedly.  
“Ferre,” he whispered.  
“Hmm?”  
“Are you ever going to ask Courf on a date?”  
Combeferre’s cheeks turned an endearing shade of red.  
“Hmm. Hadn’t thought of it.”  
Enjolras rolled his eyes at Grantaire. _These two are ridiculous._  
Grantaire scrunched his nose adorably. _Revolting, isn’t it?_  
Enjolras felt a knot in his stomach— a good one, the kind that someone gets when they’re excited and content and they have a million kisses trapped inside. It made Enjolras feel like he had a fever; it made him feel alive and sleepy and wide awake all at once. _You make me sick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w o w we're finally at the end :') im almost disappointed that bossuet didnt have a chance 2 make a cliche joke about how "couples who share everything" when grantaire shows up to class the next week with a cold
> 
> anyway, thank u guys so much for reading!! there arent a ton of u but ur comments really really make my day :')

**Author's Note:**

> oh my gosh okay this is my first fanfic so i hope it's alright? we'll see lol


End file.
